by Mike Duran
Something was happening. No amount of denial or deliberation could change that fact. Something dark sought him, stood between him and the land.
The Telling never lied.
There was only one way to put an end to it. And whoever Annie Lane was, she was not going to like it.
Chapter 21
Annie stumbled into her apartment, locked the door, and leaned against it. Her shin drooled blood and her back ached. Perhaps she needed to rethink her theory about finding the truth and taking risks.
“You should lock your door.”
Annie gasped.
A figure leaning near the dinette table said, “In times like these we can never be too cautious.” Then the figure crossed into the living room area, went to the end table near the rocker, and picked up Annie’s Bible.
“I was in a hurry,” Annie said, the tension leaving her body. “But you’re right—I have been careless.”
A studded belt sparkled between the girl’s black leather jacket. A bleach streak partitioned one side of her hair, which she brushed aside as she leafed through the old Bible.
“Sultana!” Annie studied the girl. “You’ve grown up.”
Sultana glanced at Annie and offered a slight smile. “I keep hearing that.”
“Are you and Earl still in the Pass?”
“He’s never leaving that place, you know that. It’s his mission in life to preserve the prophecy.” She closed the Bible. “Besides, he likes the tourists.”
Annie limped to the dining table and plopped into the chair with a hiss. She’d probably have a bruise the size of Texas on her rear end.
“You hurt yourself.” Sultana’s eyes were creased with concern.
“Nothing fatal.” Annie took a napkin from the table and dabbed at her shin. “Although I’ll probably get another lecture from my granddaughter.”
Sultana chuckled. “That’s what Earl always liked about you—you were a tough one.”
“Wasn’t always,” Annie said, “but I’m getting there.”
Sultana ambled across the carpet and stood before the faded color picture of Annie and Harold, her deceased husband. “Earl said things are in motion—however he does that.”
“I’ve sensed it as well.”
Sultana traced her thin finger along the picture’s wooden frame. She looked over her shoulder. “He said the Rift’s active again. That the remnant’s been warned.”
Annie nodded grimly.
“You’ve sent for the prophet, then?”
“Yes,” Annie said. “Whether or not he will come is another story.”
Sultana moved away from the picture. “I was—what?—nine, ten years old when you sent me to him. He was pretty surprised. I guess anyone would be. Kid shows up on their porch with a book, who wouldn’t be skeptical? I remember he asked a lot of questions. I told him, ‘Just keep it safe. Whenever someone returns for it, you’ll know it’s your time.’ I left him on the front porch with his mouth open. So, do you think he kept the book?”
“I don’t know.” Annie stopped swabbing at the wound and set the bloody napkin on the table. She removed the Velcro cuff from her thigh and brushed her skirt back into place. “My granddaughter went there today. I’m assuming that she delivered the message. Now it’s a waiting game. We can only pray he hasn’t surrendered.”
Sultana approached and stood near Annie. Though her skin was fair and youthful, Sultana’s eyes bore the look of one who’d seen great suffering.
“There’s someone else,” Sultana said. “I can’t say he’s one of us, really. Earl said he’s part of another tribe, whatever that means. Little Weaver’s his name. He’s not very little, though. Been up to Meridian a couple times. He knows about the Rift, lots more than Earl ever knew.”
“And these changes—whatever is happening to people—this Little Weaver knows what it is?”
“Earl and him don’t see eye to eye on it. But they both agree—it has to be stopped. He’s had an eye on the prophet, just like us. Been watchin’ him for quite a while, I guess. Longer than we’ve been around. Funny how these things work, huh?”
“Yes.”
“And the prophet,” Sultana said. “What kind of move do you think he’ll make?”
“If I had to take a guess—he’s hoping for a stalemate.”
Sultana seemed to ponder Annie’s words. Then she said, “Either way, Earl sent me to tell you the remnant’s ready.”
Annie smiled weakly. “Let’s hope that the prophet is.”
PART TWO
THE PROPHECY
This is he, and he speaks not.
This one, being banished, every doubt submerged.
—DANTE’S INFERNO
What you call riddles are truths, and seem riddles because you are not true.
—LILITH, GEORGE MACDONALD
Chapter 22
He woke with Austin Pratt on his mind. It was not the first time Zeph’s childhood friend had tormented his dreams. Tamra Lane’s visit last night had sent him into this nostalgic tailspin. Ozzy, as they had affectionately called him, was a small boy beset with numerous physical maladies. A musical prodigy, Ozzy manned the piano during school plays, occasionally interspersing rockabilly riffs with the children’s choruses just to anger Miss White, the cranky schoolmarm. His feet were clubbed, which consigned him to leg braces during school, but it never seemed to hinder his stints at the piano. Schoolmates were unusually accepting of Austin Pratt. He was the kind of underdog most folks rooted for rather than picked on. Zeph and Ozzy had been best friends, which made his memory so heartbreaking.
Austin Pratt was the first recorded instance of child abuse in Endurance. Even more haunting was the grim, persistent reminder that Zeph Walker could have stopped the boy’s murder.
Zeph washed his hands at the kitchen sink. The dust from chicken feed had a way of mucking up the drain, so he made sure to run the water a little longer. As he dried his hands, he glanced at the book on the kitchen table.
Mystery Spots and Magic Landscapes.
He’d never forgotten about that book. How could he? Ever since that kid showed up, out of the blue, entrusting him with that quirky volume, Zeph knew he was a marked man. He knew someone was watching him closely. Whoever these people were—these believers—they just could not seem to let the Prophet of the Plains go. They always wanted another word, another miracle. All he wanted was to slink into obscurity.
For the last eight years the book had lain under the house like a carcass, decaying alongside Zeph’s calling. However, after the man at the morgue and Tamra Lane’s inquiry, he could not pretend this was going away. He had to confront these wackos, put an end to their obsession.
Perhaps that would also lay his darker self—whatever that was—to rest.
So that morning Zeph Walker did something different. He did not buy a hot, sticky cinnamon roll from Mila Rios. Of course, she would notice. Creatures of habit make themselves conspicuous by their absence. Instead he slung his corduroy jacket over his shoulder, grabbed the book, and, for the first time in years, locked the front and back doors as he left.
There was a subtle change in the air, the deep chill at the onset of a hard winter. Geese were honking, skating over the foothills like a pearly banner, and the smell of tilled earth was in full bloom. Mila had not yet assembled her cactus jelly and pastries on the stand out front. The house was strangely vacant of the clanging of tins and baking sheets. She’d probably raced out on a sugar or cinnamon run, which would make his escape easier.
Zeph peered down the street to the Vermont. What connection did the old theater have to the body, if any? And why would someone have shot his dead ringer? Despite his determination to rid himself of the stigma of his prophetic past, he feared what he might find if he probed too deeply. But hiding hadn’t solved anything.
Someone had changed the marquee overnight. Today’s word for the day read: NOTHING IN THE WORLD IS SMALLER THAN A CLOSED MIND.
As he pondered those enigmatic words
, a faint snuffling sounded from somewhere nearby. He went to the fence and peered over the hedges to see Jamie digging frantically behind Mila’s coops. She’d said the dog had been acting weird lately. He watched it scrabbling and scratching at the earth.
Zeph went to the carport. A layer of dust and leaves had settled atop the truck. He turned on the water and hosed off the vehicle. It’d been several weeks since he’d fired up the trusty Ford four wheeler. He tossed his jacket on the passenger seat, followed by the book. Then Zeph started the truck, let it warm up, and opened the gate.
The wound festers. The land awaits. Between them stands your darker self.
Whatever it all meant, Zeph was determined to stop it. People could change their destiny. Neither DNA nor divine intention could force a man to do what he chose not to do. If Jesus really stood at the door and knocked, then leaving Him standing there was the soul’s prerogative.
As Zeph drove away, he hoped that Jesus and Austin Pratt would forgive him for what he was about to do.
Chapter 23
Tamra dropped her helmet and backpack onto Annie’s sofa. She removed the laminated library card from her back pocket and extended it to her grandmother. “Dieter went to the library yesterday. If you want that book, you might—” She stopped in her tracks. “My gosh!” She gaped at Annie’s leg. “What’d you do?”
Annie yanked her sock over the scabbed, gnarly bruise on her shin. “I hurt myself … playing shuffleboard.”
“Huh?” Tamra stuffed the card back into her jean pocket and put her hands on her hips. “You don’t play shuffleboard!”
“Shh!” Annie glanced at the front door. “Someone’ll hear you.”
“Listen.” Tamra went to the table, spread her hands on it, and peered at her grandmother. “At this point I don’t care if someone hears me. This is not going well. You’re not sleeping—I can tell. And all this talk about people changing is totally nuts.”
Tamra felt ashamed for speaking this way, but after seeing the wound on her grandmother’s leg, she felt desperate. She had to get her point across. In the back of her mind, what she had learned about the Madness of Endurance haunted her thoughts. She inhaled deeply and then said, “You wanna know what, Nams? The only one who’s really changing is you.”
Annie’s jaw grew slack, her expression moving from shock to hurt. As she prepared to speak, Tamra held out her hand.
“No, Grandma. You have been changing. Maybe you haven’t seen it, but you’re not yourself. You’ve been short-tempered lately. Testy. Almost like … like I’m the problem, or something. That stupid ghost story about that old mine—it’s all you can think about anymore. I almost dread coming by.”
Annie winced and then looked away.
Their relationship had always been a little chippy. Not that Tamra intentionally kept it that way. They were both cut out of the same cloth. Stubborn. Resilient. Outspoken. Usually, out of respect, Tamra gave in to Annie’s wishes and tried not to butt heads. Her grandmother had been through a lot. Between her son’s addictions, the collapse of their business, and her husband’s sudden death, Annie Lane could not be blamed for being so serious and unyielding. However, after seeing her bruised, bloodied shin, Tamra couldn’t help but believe things were heading down the wrong track. Really fast.
“Something’s going on with you, Nams. There’s more than you’re telling me.”
Annie returned her gaze to Tamra, before folding her hands on the table and staring straight ahead.
“There is, isn’t there? And now look at you.” Tamra walked around the table and put her hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. Her tone softened. “You’re all banged up. Grandma, you’re scaring me. If you keep this up, you’re gonna kill yourself.”
Annie rose from the table, slipped from Tamra’s touch, and went to the window. She put her hand through the curtains, and a ray of morning sun gleamed into the kitchen. Annie stared out the window for a moment. Then she let the curtain fall back into place and turned.
“You’re right, dear,” Annie said. “I have been snippy with you. I’m sorry.”
Tamra tried not to appear surprised by her grandmother’s admission, even though she was.
“But you have to believe me. Something really is going on here.”
Tamra groaned and slumped forward.
“I’m sorry,” Annie said. “That’s not what you want to hear, I know.”
“You’re right. That’s not what I want to hear.”
They stood for an uncomfortable moment, with Tamra measuring the lay of the land. Finally, by way of concession, she said, “I ran into Mrs. Beason yesterday on the front porch.”
Annie’s eyes sparked to life. “Beverly has not been herself.”
“I also spoke to Hannah.”
“And?”
Tamra exhaled sharply. “They’ve been having complaints. Some of the residents have been acting strange.”
“I could have told you that.”
“It doesn’t prove much of anything,” Tamra quickly added. “Especially about that old folk tale.”
“Old folk tale or not, then my observations are corroborated. Other people have noticed the same things. And Zephaniah, the boy?” Annie’s tone became hushed. “Did you see him?”
“Yeah. But he’s hardly a boy, Nams. And he doesn’t go by that name. In fact, he got kinda defensive when I called him that. He wants to be called Zeph.”
“Zeph.” Annie looked off, spacey, as if the name meant something to her. “Then you saw him. And the book—did he find it?”
“I dunno what’s so special about that book. But when I gave him the note, he got weird. He said to go back and tell you that it’s over. That it’s over and Zephaniah Walker’s dead. That’s what he wanted me to say—he’s dead.”
Annie’s gaze faltered. Then she meandered back to the table and plopped into the chair.
Tamra studied her, then asked, “Do you guys, like, know each other?”
“It’s been a long time.” Annie’s words were detached. “I don’t expect he would remember me.”
“And that book. Why would it make him so upset?”
Annie shook her head.
“He seemed so … timid,” Tamra offered. “Broken up inside. And when he got mad, I don’t know how to explain it—it was like … something happened. His words …”
Annie perked up and scooted to the edge of her chair. “Go on. He said something, and what happened?”
“I don’t know. It was just weird. And how’d he get that awful scar?”
Annie settled back in her chair. “Someone close to him surrendered to hell and took his heart with her.”
Tamra gazed quizzically at her grandmother’s words. Finally, she said, “Sad. Well, whatever you wanted from him, he’s not cooperating.”
“No. Apparently not. Not unless there’s another miracle.”
No sooner had Annie spoken than several loud raps sounded at her apartment door. They gasped in unison and turned that direction.
“They’re here!” A raspy voice shouted in the hallway. “Reinforcements have arrived!”
Chapter 24
Tamra cut Annie off at the pass and flung her grandmother’s apartment door open. An old man in a wheelchair with an unevenly chopped gray beard blocked the doorway. A worn army cap sat cockeyed on his head. He held a cane at his waist, which he coddled like a machine gun, and in his lap laid a pair of binoculars.
It was the General. Behind him stood Zeph Walker.
After meeting Zeph last night and seeing his reluctance to help, Tamra could only gape in surprise.
“I found’m in the lobby,” barked the General. “Lookin’ like part o’ the lost brigade.”
“General.” Annie pushed past Tamra. “Shh!” She pressed her finger to her lips. Then she looked at Zeph.
“I’m sorry to bother, but—” Zeph glanced nervously up and down the hallway. “Your granddaughter said I could—”
The General reached back with his cane and
thwacked Zeph across the chest.
“Listen up!” The old man rolled back in his wheelchair, jabbing his cane haphazardly in Zeph’s direction. “Whatever she says, you abide. Understood?”
Zeph nodded, flinching at the General’s every movement.
“Good! We can use all the help we can get. Now go on, young man.” He tapped Zeph on the behind with his cane.
Zeph stumbled forward, holding a book at his waist.
Across the hall Vera’s door opened slightly, and someone peeked out.
The General’s gaze snapped that direction. “Can I help you?”
The door promptly clicked shut.
The old man snarled, then settled the cane on his lap and looked at them squinty-eyed. “They’re everywhere, Lane. The hills are alive with ’em. Shadow ops. Lookin’ for a beachhead, I reckon.” Then he leaned forward in his wheelchair and whispered. “Ain’t no time for cowards.”
Annie looked back at Tamra with an I-told-you-so glance.
Tamra scrunched her lips in disdain. The last thing her grandmother needed was some old coot fueling her fascination.
“Ain’t nothin’ get by the General. You can count on me.” He punctuated the statement by slapping the armrest of his chair. Then he saluted them and began wheeling himself down the hall, jabbering to himself.
Zeph leaned back and watched the General go. “Wow.”
“He can get a little loud,” Annie agreed. “At least he left his handgun at home.”
“Yeah?” Zeph said. “Those two don’t seem like a good combination.”
“They’re not.”
“Is he really a general?”
“He was in the military, one branch or another,” Annie said. “He has a lot of medals. The General is our resident watchdog. Can’t slip much past him.”